The Reinvention of Katniss Everdeen
by maytheoddsPN12
Summary: Katniss Everdeen, a bright and reserved English major at Capitol City College, is determined to earn her degree without compromising her self-identity. But Peeta Mellark, a fellow classmate at CCC and a familiar face from her past, won't relent until she lets her guard down and indulges in the full "college experience," not to mention the possibility of romance. (An AU fanfic)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: My first attempt at an AU fanfic. Apologies if I stray away from important plot points and character traits—it's new for me as a writer. I hope you'll stick with me anyway._

…

"Well?" Prim demands, her voice so crackly over the line that I have to cup a hand around my phone to hear her better. "How is it?"

"How's what?" I'm fighting to hear her, but the cell reception around here is spotty at best, and I'm squinting at the squat brick buildings around me instead of devoting my full attention to my sister. My sudden lack of direction is alarming, particularly because I'm already running late on the first day.

A laugh bubbles up from Prim's end, and I smile at the familiar sound even though my heart is racing anxiously. "_College life_, Katniss. Tell me everything."

I sigh, pausing for much needed shade under a sprawling oak on the quad. "I've been here for three days, Prim," I say, raising an eyebrow before realizing that she can't see me. The ache in my chest returns with full force. "And I've only got about six minutes before my first class starts, and maybe thirty seconds of stories."

Prim just laughs. "All right. Then just tell me really quickly. How's the roommate?"

The thought of Madge brings a sour taste to my mouth. When I dragged my bags up three flights of stairs to Carlisle 316, I expected my roommate to be the shy, bookish blonde that she described herself as on her residential education profile. But as soon as I set foot in our 12x12 cell, she turned to me with this wide, fake smile and I knew that my expectations were wrong. By the second night, she was already holed up in a dorm room with four other girls, passing around a handle of raspberry vodka. Disappointing, but I've dealt with disappointment before. "Binge-drinking bimbo. Next question."

"Any friends on your floor?"

As far as I can tell, the girls in the honors dorm put on a damn good act. By day, they're sweet and coy and bragging to anyone who will listen about their AP credits, and by night, they're no better than Madge. Crop tops and skintight black jeans and thick eyeliner comprise their uniforms; reality television and boys and gossip gleaned from social networking sites inform their inane conversation topics. These are not girls I relate to easily. "Ha. Good one."

"Oh, come on, Katniss. You're very capable of making friends," Prim insists. I can't help but scoff at that.

"Okay." There's no way that Prim, the bubbliest and brightest kid in her class, could ever understand me, her reserved and reticent older sister. While Prim could manage to strike up a meaningful conversation with a brick wall, I tend to assume the personality of said wall when faced with such undesirable prospects.

"Cute guys?"

"_Prim._" Now I have to roll my eyes, lean back against the tree trunk for support. "God, how many times do I have to tell you that college isn't about _guys_?"

She giggles. I can almost picture her dimples, the way her cheeks flush pink at the very notion of boys. It's so sweet, so innocent for a girl in her junior year of high school, that I relent for a moment and laugh with her. "Shouldn't it be?"

"No, of course not. I have four years ahead of me, and an English degree to work towards…" I trail off, turning my gaze to the cobbled pathway just beyond me that weaves its way into the center of campus. "There's plenty of time to waste on boys later. When I'm retired."

Prim huffs, but I can hear amusement in her voice. "Aw, lighten up, Katniss. It's your freshman year of college. You don't get this time back, you know."

Yeah, I've heard that countless times over the last three days. _Enjoy it, guys,_ the resident advisors told us with wistful looks in their eyes. _Have experiences. Get involved. Make memories, _the president of Capitol City College, Coriolanus Snow, admonished in his convocation address. Even the dining hall workers repeat the same mantra whenever we swipe in. _Freshman year, it's something you'll never get back. Blink and you'll miss it. _"I know." Then I bite down hard on my bottom lip as I watch the swarms of raucous college students funneling into the academic buildings down the way. My anxiety peaks. "Unless I flunk out."

"You're _not_ going to flunk out," Prim says, her voice suddenly grave. "Katniss. You got into the top liberal arts college in the state, made it into the honors program, _and _got merit money on top of it." She pauses. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you're incredibly vain and seeking attention by making me repeat this to you on a daily basis. But I'll keep reminding you until you believe that _you_ _deserve_ _this_."

I want to believe Prim, but there's just so much at stake. I've been working towards this goal for as long as I can remember. Going to CCC has always been part of the plan; I'd earn a masters' degree in English in five years, find work at a publishing house and figure out a way to support Mom and Prim along the way. I didn't sacrifice the last four years of my life forcing myself to take practice SATs in my room on Saturday nights and spending every afternoon at the public library for nothing. The notion that I'm smart and privileged enough to attend a prestigious local school doesn't make a difference to me. I'm here for investment purposes, not an ego boost.

"I miss you, Prim," I say quietly. I hear the smile in her voice as she returns the sentiment. "But I really have to go now. Wouldn't want to miss the first Mathematics for Liberal Arts session."

"Sounds right up your alley," Prim says with a laugh. "I'll let you go. Call me later when you get the chance, okay?"

I step out from under the tree and start speed-walking down the path towards the still-elusive science and mathematics complex. "Okay, will do."

"Oh, and Katniss? _Try_ to have a little fun, just for me." The line clicks off before I can protest.


	2. Chapter 2

Predictably, Mathematics for Liberal Arts was a disaster. The professor was an old drone, and I can only do so much with a scientific calculator before my mind blanks and I'm muttering curses under my breath. Safe to say that it won't be my favorite class of the semester.

Doesn't matter—a quick glance at my schedule confirms that my first college literature course is up next. I can't suppress the little shiver of nervous pleasure that runs up my spine. _This_ is what I'm here for: to read the classics, to write complex theses, to push myself to the breaking point and excel in spite of it all. I can almost see the plan in action, can almost taste that first internship in the city where fetching coffee for editors' assistants seems glamorous. Lit 199 is just the first step on that path to future success, and settling for anything less than a 4.0 is simply not an option if my dreams are to become a reality.

It's not all for me, though. The consecutive semesters on the dean's list, the cap and gown, the coveted college degree, the geek-chic position at a major publishing house… it's a nice dream, but what I'm really after is the paycheck at the end of all this.

Ever since my dad passed away a few years ago, leaving my mother with two young daughters and several hundred thousand dollars of unpaid bank loans on their jointly-owned local apothecary, I've taken it upon myself to provide for the family. Whenever I could, I'd pick up shifts at the supermarket and bring home a meager paycheck to pay some bills. To supplement our diet, I'd disappear into the woods just outside of town with Gale and hunt for fresh game, sometimes sell what I could spare at weekend farmers' markets. We struggled to get by, more than my mother cared to admit.

Honestly, I considered giving up on the plan. College, while a prerequisite for the bulk of job applications, is expensive, and financial aid only softens the blow so much. Before committing to CCC, I told Mom that I'd be okay with finding a couple of part-time jobs and kicking in more rent for the apartment. When she demurred, I offered to commute and work whenever I wasn't at school. If it wasn't for Prim, I wouldn't even be living in a dorm right now. She insisted—demanded, really—that I make the most of my college experience, even if it meant that she and Mom would have to do without for a little while. "You've given up so much for us, Katniss," she told me tearfully when I admitted that I was seriously considering turning down my scholarship in favor of gainful employment. "Don't give up on yourself for my benefit." And I knew that in spite of my protests, there was no way I'd get her to relent. I guess Prim and I aren't all that different after all.

So I entered my name in the housing lottery. I'll admit it, I was hoping that I'd get turned down, that I'd have to commute and keep living a quiet home life, but then the letter came in the mail and announced in big bold typeface that I'd be spending freshman year in Carlisle Hall, with a randomly matched roommate, no less. I swallowed my disappointment, barely managed to feign excitement about the prospect of being a "real" college student and having "life experiences." Mom was beaming from ear to ear, bubbling over with forced enthusiasm, but all I wanted to do was look her straight in the eye and make her admit that the last six years of my life have been filled with "experiences," none of them pleasant or easy to polish over.

But these aren't memories that I want to dwell on, not while I'm walking on slightly shaking legs to the humanities building. The quaint red brick building sits on the northern border of campus, next to a green lake adorned by hundreds of waving trees. Imagine what Thoreau or Emerson would have written about this picturesque scenery. I grin to myself at the thought, hitch my backpack up over my shoulder, and resolve to spend a little time sitting on those grassy banks when I have a free moment today.

The interior of the building is not nearly as impressive as the view outside—the halls are narrow, the classrooms bunched together, the air redolent of chalk and perhaps a hint of mildew. I breathe it in, anyway. This is where my future begins.

I squint at the plaques outside the doors as I wander down the first floor hall until I find the right room number. When I peek through the thin rectangular pane, I catch a glimpse of a professor at the chalkboard, furiously scribbling away in an attempt to beat the ticking clock. Does being a few minutes early to class make me seem over-eager? I chew on my bottom lip, worried for half a second that it automatically labels me as a freshman, but then I clear the thought from my mind. _Who gives a shit? _I remind myself. _You're not here to try to impress anyone, after all._

Except for this English professor, that is. I know nothing about him or her, aside from a last name. Will this professor be as much of a boring drone as my math professor, or a raving lunatic, or so intimidatingly intelligent that holding eye contact for more than a few seconds will seem like a confrontation? My imagination runs away with these wild guesses, but speculating about the person who's about to jumpstart my collegiate education does nothing to calm my frayed nerves.

Eventually the classroom door swings open, and after the stream of impossibly mature-looking students trickles out into the hallway, I slip inside and take a seat in the center of the front row. Then I second-guess myself. Too much? I quickly gather my things and settle into a desk about two rows back, closer to the wall opposite the door, opting for a semblance of nonchalance.

My classmates start filing in as the minutes tick by, but I barely pay any attention to them and their mindless chatter. Instead, I busy myself with rummaging through my bag for a fresh notebook and sharp pencils, and when everything is laid out on my desk, I bite down on the end of the pencil until the yellow paint chips off.

Why am I so nervous? Probably just putting too much pressure on the next eighty minutes of my life, magnifying it until I'm paralyzed by my own anxiety. I have a strange tendency to blow things out of proportion, to obsess and fixate when I know deep-down that this energy is best channeled into my work. What I need right now is a distraction.

And boy, do I get a good one.


	3. Chapter 3

Literally the second that I glance up from my desk towards the door, I see a familiar face in the window. The knob twists and I barely have time to process what I'm seeing before the door opens.

Peeta Mellark is here. _Peeta Mellark._

I gape at him, trying desperately to backtrack to senior year and remember what his college plans were. But I'm drawing a blank. I'm certain that I would have remembered that he was planning on attending the same school as me.

I shouldn't be this surprised. For as long as I can remember, Peeta Mellark has been in my life. We've never spoken, barely exchanged more than a passing glance or a nod in twelve years of attending the same schools and living in the same town. I can't call forth a clear memory of him prior to our first and only encounter about six years ago.

Up until that night, Peeta Mellark was just another kid from the Borough. As far as I knew, he ran in a circle of well-to-do kids who belonged to wealthy parents. Not exactly multi-millionaires, but in our sleepy little suburban town of Chestnut Hill, a steady income and a full bank account was essentially equivalent to making it on the Fortune 500 list. His parents owned and operated the local bakery, an establishment I'd only drop by occasionally to peddle hand-picked berries. And that's exactly what I was doing the night when I first crossed paths with Peeta.

You have to understand—my father had just died, my mother was drowning in debt and sorrow, and the dwindling bank account made our circumstances desperate. Food was scarce and meager; my family was growing so thin that at one point, I could count Prim's ribs. So I turned to the woods just outside of town for solace.

My father knew how to gather edible herbs and berries, knew how to hunt game with a bow and arrow. Invaluable skills, but illegal in our town without a proper license. So he taught me some in the months before his heart gave out.

My aim was improving, but in the weeks following the funeral, I was too shaky to make a decent shot. I relied on my gathering skills, sold what berries and herbs I could spare to the farmers' market and other local establishments, fed our family with mixed berry salads and little else. I was barely twelve years old, hardly equipped to support a family of three with so few skills and so little money.

It was a rainy evening in early April, the lingering winter chill palpable in every rain drop that ran down my back and every gust of wind. I'd trudged into the Borough with my plastic bucket of ripe blackberries, slogging through muddy yards and trying to push past my own exhaustion. My pace quickened as the Mellark Bakery came into view. I'd had enough doors slammed in my face to begin to feel disheartened, but this was a customer that I could count on to make a generous purchase. Though rainwater was quickly filling my too-tight rain boots, I walked with a purpose towards the lit porch-front. The baker's kindly eyes and crisp twenty-dollar bill would keep me warm, for at least a little while.

But when I knocked at the door with raw knuckles, I found a different pair of blue eyes staring back at me. I recognized their owner—a blond boy with a pleasant face who was in my year at Chestnut Hill Intermediate. His face didn't seem as pleasant as it usually did in the dank hallways, however. He peered at me through a barely widened doorway, looking skittish, like if I made a sudden movement, he might dart away in fear.

I knew that I should ask if his father was around, but the words lodged in my throat. The aroma of baking bread wafted down the hall and through the crack in the doorway, and I feared that if I opened my mouth, I'd start drooling instead. I pressed my dry, cracked lips together and stood on the porch, frozen and dripping wet. The boy stared back at me. His lips twitched as if he was about to say something, but the sound of approaching footsteps behind him made him blanch and close his mouth.

"What do you want?" a woman's shrill voice demanded from around the corner. "We are _closed_, in case you couldn't read the sign on the door." A flush of embarrassment spread across my cheeks as I lifted my gaze and saw the woman's words confirmed in big, red letters. _CLOSED._

A rather imposing woman—bushy blond hair and sharp green eyes, with prominent arm muscles peeking out from her stained apron—materialized at the door. The baker's wife, I assumed. She wasn't nearly as pleasant as her soft-spoken husband. She glared down at me as she stepped protectively in front of her son. "Are you deaf, too, or just illiterate?" she snapped when I gaped up at her. "_What_ do you want?"

"Uh…" I stammered, squeezing my dripping braid with my free hand. "I'm…selling some berries and didn't know if you'd want some… sorry to bother you…"

"I don't do back-door deals," she sniffed with a haughty air. "And we have a fruit supplier already."

I nodded, filled with a mixture of disappointment and shame. If Mr. Mellark already had a fruit supplier, why had he made a habit of buying my over-priced berries on a regular basis? Pity, I suspected, had something to do with it. Red, hot shame registered on my face. "Oh. I didn't know…"

The woman's nostrils flared as she stared down at me. "You're Cynthia Everdeen's girl," she said, almost incredulously. I could feel her scrutinizing me as I nodded to confirm.

Something flashed in her eyes. Pity, maybe? No, something sharper, crueler. I could tell because she sucked in a short breath and planted her arms on her hips. "If I catch you begging on my property again, you can be sure that I'll call the cops," she told me. Impossible to mistake the tone of authority and determination in her voice. "Got it?"

She didn't wait for an answer, just slammed the door in my face. Even though this wasn't the first time it happened that night, I felt the sting of tears in my eyes. Being denigrated in front of the wide-eyed blond boy, essentially labeled a beggar and a low-life, was more than I could take.

I stumbled down the stairs and made it a few feet down the paved pathway before my knees buckled and I had to take shelter under a weeping willow until I could get my bearings and make it home on an empty stomach. I buried my head in my hands and allowed myself to cry for the first time since I stood at my father's grave. Rainwater and teardrops mingled and streamed into my mouth, the taste of salt not entirely unwelcome. The smell of fresh bread and taste of saltwater almost reminded me of buttered dinner rolls, a luxury I hadn't enjoyed in years.

A distant clap of thunder startled me from my weakness. At least, I thought it was thunder until I heard something clattering to the floor in the bakery. Then it occurred to me that I'd just heard the sound of a hand striking human flesh. The realization stopped up my tears and sobered me. Had that woman actually…?

A blond head of hair bobbed past the window, then doubled back. The boy's eyes peered over the windowsill, seemed to linger on me. A slim finger raised, as if to say,_ Wait there._ Then he disappeared from view.

The back door slid open tentatively a few minutes later, and the blond boy's head popped out. He glanced back over his shoulder, and even in the gloom, I could see a conflicted look on his face. Then he stepped into the small pool of light just beyond the door, just long enough for me to see a red imprint on his cheek. I choked back a cry of indignation. She actually _hit_ her own son. But the question remained: why?

He ducked back into the shadows, drew closer to where I sat, huddled under the tree. Something was tucked under his arm, but it was too dark for me to make it out. Then he was kneeling briefly before me. The boy slid the mystery object into my hands—a warm loaf of bread—and pressed a wad of paper into my palm. And as quickly as he'd come, he was back on his feet and rushing back inside without a second glance. I took it as a sign that I should take off as well, lest his mother discover that I was trespassing on her precious property. So I ran, renewed by the promise of a better tomorrow.

Once I'd made it home, I unfurled the wad in my fist and saw that it was a fifty-dollar bill. More than double what his father would pay me for my berries ordinarily, and he didn't even take the bucket from me. And the loaf was slightly blackened, possibly the reason that his mother slapped him full across the face. I stared at these unsolicited gifts in stunned silence until Mom and Prim came and found me, crowing with delight.

I've never told anyone about what Peeta Mellark did for me all those years ago. Worse, I've never attempted to thank him for his singular act of kindness. I can't repay him in any meaningful way—a simple thank-you just wouldn't suffice. Sometimes I'd look up in the crowded lunchroom, or let my eyes wander during a particularly boring lesson, and find his eyes fixed on me in what seemed to be accusingly. He'd probably been wondering why I hadn't approached him yet with words of gratitude. So I started ducking my head whenever I saw him in the hallways, avoided the bakery at all costs. He must think I'm ungrateful, self-absorbed, but I can't bear to thank him in such a half-hearted manner.

After that night, he was always off to the side, always just beneath my notice. It's not that he's forgettable. Quite the contrary, really. He was well-known in high school, athletic, relatively popular and gregarious. Basically, a guy so nice that it made me uneasy. I've always been intensely aware of him, at least since that night six years ago when he saved me from the brink of starvation. Though I've come to expect that he'll surface at the most unexpected time and place, I can't say that I thought I'd find him here. In my English class, no less.

Peeta moves effortlessly through the room, nodding and smiling at friends he's already managed to make in the three days we've been here. I fight the urge to scoff at him, though I'm sure the look of incredulity and disgust is plain on my face. Then his eyes flit to mine.

We hold eye contact for a brief moment until I realize that he caught me staring at him. Gawking, really. My cheeks flush and I drop my gaze to my desk. So much for keeping a low profile.

The classroom door slams, and I jump in my seat as I look up to see a shaggy-haired man in his mid-forties walk in. He's clad in a button-down red flannel and a pair of dark jeans, and keeps his chin and neck scruffy. He drops a leather messenger bag on the floor at the center of the room. "According to your schedules, my name is Professor Abernathy. But I insist that you call me Haymitch. I hate being called 'Professor.' It's stuffy." He grins at the stunned faces around the room. I think we were all expecting a white-haired man in an argyle sweater vest, or a tweed jacket with elbow patches. But Professor Abernathy—sorry, Haymitch—doesn't quite fit the bill.

"You know what else is stuffy, besides the air in this damn room?" Haymitch says, to which a couple of the students titter nervously. "This desk arrangement. We're moving these into a U-formation." He pauses, looks out at the thirty or so students sitting stiffly in rows. "Now."

There's a bit of grumbling as everyone gathers their bags and starts pushing the desks into a half-circle in the middle of the room. I'm careful to situate myself towards the far wall—not in the dead center, not on the end of the row. I do a quick scan of the room and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that Peeta's in the middle, flanked by friends and completely oblivious to where I'm sitting.

All attention turns back to Haymitch once the desks are in a loose formation. Now he's fished a flask out of his shirt pocket, and he's taking a long pull on it. I get the sense that he's doing this for dramatic effect, and a lot of my peers are buying into it. Haymitch wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nothing like a good whiskey," he says with narrowed eyes. "Just ask Faulkner. Hemingway was partial to a mojito. Even Beowulf and his fellow Geat warriors loved a brew in the mead hall after a hard-won battle." Haymitch smirks, raising his flask. "Alcohol…the fuel of great novelists and characters since the beginning of time." He clears his throat and pockets the flask again. "My way of saying, welcome to Lit 199: Survey of Literature."

By this point, I've started to relax and settle back into my seat. I came into this thinking that the professor was going to be some hard-ass, nitpicking prep. But I see now that he's a boozing hippie who wants us to call him by his first name and sit around in a circle waxing poetic about the magical powers of alcohol. It's not my ideal introduction to the English department, but at least I can count on this being an easy course.

Then, unexpectedly, Haymitch starts kicking things into high gear. "I know that we're at the point in the first class where we play icebreakers and get to know one another better. But this class meets for eighty minutes twice a week, and if you think I'm gonna let you sit around and play games like third graders, think again." Haymitch rifles through the bag on the ground and surfaces with a notebook. "What I will do is take attendance briefly, and when I call your name, just tell me your major and minor, if you have one. Sound good?" Without waiting for an answer, he flips to the right page in his notebook and starts calling out names.

"Katniss Everdeen," he says after getting through the first few names on the list. I try my best to sit up straight and look engaged, but I'm so confused by Haymitch's erratic behavior—lenient professor or crazy hard-ass?—that I probably come off as pissed. "Is there a Katniss Everdeen in this room?"

"Yeah, um. I'm English A and I don't have a minor in mind yet," I answer, keeping my eyes fixed on the podium at the front of the room. I feel everyone's eyes on me and the thick air pulsating and I'm waiting for Haymitch to just check off my name and move on so that the attention shifts from me and transfers to some other poor soul. But it's still so quiet and it feels like thirty pairs of eyes are burning holes through my skull.

Haymitch snorts, actually _snorts_, in response. "English A?" he repeats incredulously. "Not secondary ed? Not creative writing?" I shake my head at him, refusing to elaborate on my answer any further. "Out of all of the paths you could have taken in the English major, you picked _straight English._ The other two suggest that you have no clue what you're doing with your life, but at least there's a trajectory. But English A is the equivalent of moving back in with your parents and lounging in your pajamas until 4 PM because you've just accepted that you're never going to find employment." He chuckles and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms so that I don't burst out angrily, or burst into tears of humiliation because everyone is staring at me with looks of pure pity or disgust at this point. "Thanks for the laugh, sweetheart, I needed that. Okay, Calliope Fennelly?"

I lower my head so that I'm just staring at the desk until I hear Haymitch say, "Peeta Mellark?"

"Right now I'm English A, but I'm planning on picking up a double major as soon as possible. Business, most likely." I can't help myself—I glance up at him incredulously. His eyes meet mine for a brief instant before turning back to the front of the room, possibly seeking Haymitch's elusive approval. I bite back a grin at the thought of Haymitch cutting him down in front of the rest of the class. Finally, the playing field is evening out.

But infuriatingly, Haymitch's mouth quirks up into a smile. "Respectable," is all he says. Then he glances back down at his notebook and calls out the next person's name, without so much as a dig at Peeta's choice of a straight English degree.

I scowl at my desk, face still burning with humiliation. How have I already managed to make a fool of myself on the first day of classes, while Peeta Mellark emerges unscathed? Damn him and his infallibility.

Roll call now finished, Haymitch drags a chair into the center of the fold and slides into the seat. He sits with his elbows perched atop his knees, adopting the pose of an athlete warming a bench, mentally preparing for battle. "So. It looks like you're all freshmen," Haymitch says with a hint of an amused smile. "I can only assume that, given the high standards of this institution, most of you were in the top of your high school classes. Most of you are accustomed to making honor roll every semester, doing well on tests without much preparation, getting A's on English papers after skimming the book's synopsis online." He scans the room for confirmation. "Am I correct in my assumptions?"

A little nervous laughter swells in response. Haymitch nods, a knowing smile playing across his lips. "Good. Now I know where I stand with all of you," he says. Then his face shifts, turning to stone before my eyes. I blink at the transformation. "It's my responsibility to ensure that you know where you stand with me. Allow me to enlighten you." He rises from his seat, circles back to the podium. A man of authority, standing tall behind a podium in a position of power.

"This is not an institution that accepts slackers. Similarly, this is not a department that tolerates slackers. We here in the English department believe that great readers, writers and thinkers are _made_, not born. You came here to learn; that's exactly what your tuition is going towards." He pounds his fist on the desk once, sending a jolt of energy through my spine. "I don't know if you're aware, but I have a reputation in this department. Those who have never taken my class wrongly assume that I'm a lenient grader. My former students will tell you otherwise." He stares out at us, almost menacingly. "While this is an introductory level course, I believe that it's my responsibility to separate the wheat from the chaff. In other words, the strongest students will succeed in this major. The rest may well consider a different educational path."

Haymitch starts passing out the course syllabus, continuing his monologue as he does so. I look down the half-circle of miniature desks and am more than a little shocked to discover that it's little more than a single sheet of printer paper. When he reaches my desk and unceremoniously shoves the slip in my face without pausing to look me in the eye, I see that the syllabus is essentially a list of course materials and due dates for as-of-yet unexplained and unassigned projects. There are no course expectations, no rubrics, no carefully outlined credit hour requirements. It's sparse.

"I suggest that you start boning up on Middle English lit in the coming days to prepare for our first exam, which will be held on the 27th. This will count for ten percent of your final grade. There's also a theory paper in which you will choose a theoretical approach, summarize the important terms and concepts, apply it to an early text of your choice, and produce a coherent argument. It will be due the following Monday after your exam." Haymitch pauses in the center of the room, folding his arms across his chest, a man clearly self-satisfied with his display of power. "Like I said earlier, this isn't your high school AP Lit class. Forget everything you thought you knew about critical analysis. You're in a brand new arena now, and shit is about to _hit the fan_. Deal with it." His face, impassive and surly, looms like a dark cloud about to open up and release a downpour. He surveys the room, which has since fallen silent. "Questions?"

My hand shoots up of its own accord, but I speak before he gives me a nod of assent. I ignore the thirty heads that snap in my direction in unison, the vacant stares and slightly gaping mouths. "Yeah, how about giving us some advice about how to handle this workload?" I say in a biting tone. It takes a lot of restraint not to leap out of my seat and cram this godforsaken syllabus down his throat. I hate being condescended to, and this hippie with a doctorate is clearly the master of condescension.

His lips curl up into what looks like a sneer. "Here's some advice," Haymitch says with a barely suppressed laugh. "Stay alive."

I'm so appalled by his flip retort that I can't find the words to fight back. He chuckles, tilts his wristwatch towards his face and shrugs. "If that's it for the questions, I suppose we'll dive right in to the material." Haymitch plucks a thick _Complete Anthology of English Literature_ off the podium and starts thumbing through it, and as he instructs us to open to a specific page, he glances up just once and raises a bushy eyebrow at me. As if to say, _This is war._


	4. Chapter 4

Weighed down with dense reading material, a stack of assignments a mile high and a sense of foreboding, I take a little extra time gathering up my belongings before leaving the classroom. Rather, I stall until Haymitch has collected his papers and stalked out of the room because I can't bring myself to walk by his podium and feel his judgmental beady eyes on me. Avoidance is much easier.

"_Shit_," I exclaim as I emerge from the classroom into the hall, finding none other than Peeta Mellark leaning against the wall adjacent to the door. Whatever I was holding in my hands falls out of my hands and drops with a thud on the ground, and my singular-sheeted syllabus floats back and forth on a light breeze until it rests delicately atop my textbooks. Heart still beating wildly from the scare, I go into fight-or-flight mode and stoop to snatch up my stuff as quickly and gracefully as possible so I can make my exit. But Peeta's there first, kneeling to the ground before I can even reach down to retrieve my things.

"Here you go," he says as he rises to his feet, handing me my books. I chance a quick glance at him, see that his eyes are lit up with amusement. It only makes me flush a deeper shade of pink. I think he mistakes my frustration for genuine shyness. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare the hell out of you." He grins.

"It's fine, thanks," I mutter. Apathy is the best defense I know, so I wield it accordingly. Head down and pride slightly damaged, I start down the hallway towards the exit.

I've just pushed the creaky side door open, closed my eyes and breathed in a lungful of fresh air, when I hear him approaching from behind. I turn to look at him over my shoulder, narrow my eyes at his easy smile. "So," he says, obviously trying to resuscitate a conversation that never actually began. "Crazy class, huh?"

I stare at him for a few moments in confused silence. He's never made an effort to approach me before. We're not friends, never have been, but maybe nostalgia for high school and bygone days has him reaching out to the unlikeliest of people. But no, he's too eager, too desperate to strike up a conversation with _me_ of all people, for it to be something so casual. He was obviously waiting for me to leave the classroom so he could talk to me. What's his angle?

So I force a polite, thin-lipped smile. "Yup."

This is where he should nod in reply, take his cue and awkwardly tell me that he'll see me in class. But Peeta Mellark, master of subtlety that he is, doesn't take the hint.

Even as I'm hurrying down the stone steps in a thinly veiled attempt to extricate myself from this uncomfortable exchange, Peeta is oddly willing to follow. "Look, I'm really sorry about what Haymitch said to you, in front of the entire class. That was…unbelievable," he says as we round the corner. I shoot him a skeptical side glance, half-expecting him to break into a huge teasing grin, but his brow is furrowed and I'm confused again. Peeta Mellark, expressing sympathy for _my_ humiliation?

This day is getting too weird, too fast.

"Thanks," I tell him with a shrug. His eyes light up, seemingly encouraged by my response. Meanwhile, I'm wracking my brain for a viable excuse to slip away, but nothing is good enough to get him out of my hair. Studying in the library? Grabbing something to eat in the dining hall? Sitting by the lake to clear my mind? They all sound like invitations, not evasive maneuvers.

"You said you're English A, right?" His question breaks me out of my reverie. Without really meaning to, I scowl in response.

"Are you joking right now?" I shoot back at him, hitching my bag up over my shoulder even higher. Peeta's eyebrows lift, and it's like I can see him internally waving a white flag in surrender. "Thanks, but I've had enough of the mockery for today."

He raises his hands, the universal sign for _backing off now_. "Wasn't trying to mock you," he says, but the slight curvature of his lips suggests otherwise. "Just…making conversation."

"Oh," is all I can say back. My cheeks burn, and I decide that it's easier if I just shut up now, to spare myself further embarrassment. But Peeta grins at me gamely. I know he's waiting for me to ask him about his double major just so he can gloat and feign humility, but I don't feel like engaging him.

"We're basically a minority around here," he says with a laugh. I stare at him until he elaborates with a grin. "If what Haymitch said has any truth to it, I guess choosing English A is kind of like a late-onset act of teenage rebellion." Peeta shrugs. "Oddly, I'm okay with that."

This whole exchange is so unbelievably awkward. Not that he seems to notice. Truth is, I'm not great at making friends, because any attempts that people make at getting to know me better usually end up fizzling out. They'll try to strike up a conversation, I'll make some excuse to put an end to it before it gets too real, and then that's it. But every time I've tried to shut this particular conversation down, Peeta keeps coming back with full force. It's unprecedented, but it doesn't make me any more willing to engage him.

I stop short, and, feigning frustration, I let out a huge sigh. Peeta stops beside me, and I can feel his eyes on me, questioning and full of concern. Somehow, that makes me more desperate to escape. "I think I left something back in the classroom," I lie, avoiding his eyes so that he can't see right through me. "I should go back and check. You can go ahead without me." I turn away before he can say anything, before giving him the chance to say anything about the bread and my unforgivable rudeness.

Once I've made it into the cluster of buildings, I stop and look over my shoulder to see if he's still standing there on the path, watching me run away. But he's already gone. I breathe a sigh of relief and change my direction.

I sit in the grass and stare out across the shimmering lake until my skin is nearly boiling and I'm positive that Peeta Mellark isn't waiting somewhere for me again.

…

After scarfing down a dry ham and cheese sandwich in the dining hall for dinner, I head back to the dorm at long last. It's a bit of a trek from the center of campus to Carlisle Hall, but I can appreciate the fact that the dorm is basically on the outskirts of campus, and home to only a handful of freshmen in the honors program. The secluded location and the diminutive size are just the barriers I need to keep certain people at bay.

I exchange nods with some of the people on my floor, who are congregating in loud clusters in the hallway. I recognize a few of the girls from the communal bathroom, girls who drunkenly stumble around and slur words of apology to anyone they bump into accidentally after a long night of binging. Perhaps it's a petty pre-judgment, but I've already decided that these are not girls I want to be friends with, assuming that their friendship comes with an unspoken agreement to take turns holding each other's hair while we purge after a night of drinking. I can almost imagine Prim scolding me over the phone for passing up 'opportunities' to bond with relative strangers, but this is one of the few times that I'm able to dismiss her advice without feeling guilty about it.

My phone, buried somewhere in the depths of my backpack, vibrates while I fight to fit my room key into the lock. It's definitely competing for my attention, but I make myself focus on the task at hand and spend the next few moments jiggling the key back and forth in the rusty lock before I can swing the door open.

Madge is sitting at her desk—rather, her vanity—carefully applying a heavy layer of makeup. She glances over at me as I close the door behind me and smiles faintly, clearly distracted by the arduous task of powdering her nose. "Hey, Katniss," she breathes, turning her attention back to her tabletop mirror.

"Hey," I say with a shrug, just as my phone descends into still silence. I set my bag down beside my desk, but overcome with a sudden wave of exhaustion, I clamber up on my narrow twin bed and watch Madge sculpt her features with makeup from my perch instead of hitting the books. "You're dressed up," I say lamely, but Madge just laughs and turns her head over her shoulder to look at me.

"It's Tuesday night," she offers, as if that were enough of an explanation. When I stare at her blankly, she adds, "No class on Wednesdays. Remember?"

I raise my eyebrows and nod assent. As if Madge doesn't have enough opportunity to drink. "Big party on campus somewhere?" I ask. I wonder if she can hear the hint of venom lacing my tone. But she's turned back to her makeup station and doesn't seem to notice.

"No, it's on frat row," she says simply, her lips slightly parted as she waves the mascara wand over her lashes repeatedly. It's a coating so thick that I can't imagine she'll be able to blink without getting them all stuck together. Then, a pause so long and uncomfortable that I know she's trying to come up with something to fill the void in the room. "You going?"

I almost have to choke back laughter. Madge doesn't turn to look at me, but I can see her pitiful expression in the tiny circular mirror and know that a small part of her must feel bad for me. She has to know that this frat party is not my scene, but the very notion that I wasn't invited or able to find friends with connections appears to bother her all the same. "No, I have a lot of reading to do." Her lips curl up sympathetically in her reflection, and I feel the urge to say with a bitter laugh, "The life of an English major, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Madge says, now switching to sweeping coal-black eye shadow across her lids. She makes no attempt to invite me along. I'm not offended, but that vacant, sad look in her eyes does piss me off. Somehow, I get the sense that she thinks I'm naïve or stupid because I'm a little young to be a freshman in college, or because I'm a little standoffish in public, or because I couldn't conceal my look of distaste when she half-jokingly invited me to do shots with her in her friend's room the other night. But I have to swallow that anger and cope, because we've got eight months left in this place and I'm not in the habit of making enemies.

Now that she's sufficiently absorbed in beautifying herself, I take the opportunity to root around my bag for my phone. I find it in a tiny side pocket, fish it out and glance at the screen. A missed call from a few minutes ago, but not from Prim as I'd expected.

A stupid grin crosses my face, and before I can stop myself, I punch the redial button and hold the phone up to my ear, counting the number of rings and impatiently waiting for them to stop. Then I hear a click, and then the best two words I've heard in what feels like forever: "Hey, Catnip."

"Hey, yourself, Gale," I say back, still grinning as I flop back onto my pillow. "What's going on?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," he says, and I swear I can hear a smile in his voice. "I meant to call a few days ago, see how the move-in went, but time just got away from me, and…"

"No, don't worry about that. I promise I'm not _too_ offended." Gale laughs, his voice a little metallic and crackly through the earpiece, but altogether warm and familiar. "So, you've been getting longer shifts, huh?"

He clears his throat. "Yeah. But let's not talk about me right now, okay? I want you to tell me everything. And be as detailed as possible."

"You sound like Prim," I snort.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see, and tuck an arm behind my head. If I can just forget that I'm lying on my back on a stiff mattress in a sweaty, cramped dorm room, or that when I look out my window, I see rows of brick buildings and tree-lined sidewalks instead of Gale's townhouse just across the street…. If I could forget all of these things, this conversation would seem natural.

Gale's my best friend in the world next to Prim, the only person I can really trust with my anxieties and worries and insecurities without thinking that my words will be met with harsh judgment. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, regarded each other in the cautious, timid way that kids always do until they're certain of each other. It wasn't until after my father died when I was eleven that we even struck up a conversation, because I think in some way, he felt some sort of obligation to shelter me from the harsh realities of the world now that my father could not. Though he was barely two years older than me, tall and lanky and aloof and distant, he seemed to take a liking to me, seemed to be able to relate to my own personal tragedies because he was in the same boat. The eldest child of a fatherless family, just desperate and determined enough to fight to keep his family going.

We bonded in the woods. That's where I met him, at least formally, in the middle of the woods on a cool October afternoon.

I'd been practicing my shooting, aiming at tree trunks and readjusting, readjusting constantly when this tall figure emerged from the brush. Instinctively, I let an arrow fly, and as my fingers released the taut bowstring, I realized that I was aiming straight at Gale Hawthorne's skull. My neighbor, my tentative acquaintance. Not a very neighborly thing to do.

He ducked just in time, so that the arrow whizzed over his head and stuck in the tree trunk behind him. Then he straightened up, raised a thick, dark eyebrow at me, and deadpanned, "You have _killer_ aim."

I stared at this boy in startled silence, my mouth hanging open of its own accord. I knew that I should apologize for nearly skewering him, but I just couldn't find the words. Instead, I blurted out, "What are you doing here?"

"Last I checked, these woods are public property. You're just lucky that I wasn't some park ranger waiting to arrest you for hunting without a license on government land." The side of his mouth crooked up. "That _is_ what you're doing, isn't it?"

I glared at him, held up my bow in defiance. "I wasn't hunting," I scowled, and when his eyebrows quirked up in obvious disbelief, I muttered, "Just practicing my aim."

"Oh. Well, in that case, you need all the practice that you can get." Gale's dark eyes seared into mine, and even though my cheeks were burning like a wildfire, I couldn't look away. He leaned up against the tree, crossed his arms over his chest. "You're my neighbor, right?" When I nodded to confirm, suddenly voiceless and timid, he narrowed his eyes at me. "I thought I recognized you. What's your name, anyway?"

"Katniss Everdeen," I mumbled under my breath, partially hoping that he wouldn't hear me correctly in case he decided to turn me over to the authorities for trespassing. But something about him set me at ease; I wasn't entirely convinced that he was out for blood. Maybe it was because I knew that his father had died a few years back in a horrific mining accident, because he had to be the family breadwinner and care for his mother and siblings, just like I did. He wouldn't turn me in.

"_Catnip?"_ he repeated incredulously, a grin working its way across his face. _"That's_ your name?"

"_Katniss_," I enunciated sharply, now that I was more confident that I could trust him. If not trust him, then find common ground with him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to practice shooting."

He looked curious, drew closer to me. "You can hunt?"

"A little."

It actually seemed like he was impressed. "Do you think you could…teach me?"

I stared at him, wondering if this was all some sort of elaborate joke. But he was dead serious, judging by the way that he was toeing the ground with the tip of his hiking boot and sort of avoiding my eyes. I guess that the understanding that we shared a common history forced me to say what came next. "Maybe," I told him lightly, pulling another arrow from my quiver and loading it as I prepared for my next shot. "I've been told that I have killer aim."

He grinned at that. And that was the moment that I knew we could be friends.

We've been close ever since.

"Let's see. Two days of freshman orientation: uncomfortable, forced bonding. I had my first day of classes today," I tell Gale.

"What's the verdict?"

"My math class was boring as hell. English was a _disaster_," I sigh. "The professor's a pompous ass. And a drunk, to boot."

He sighs. "That sucks, Catnip. Sorry to hear that."

"I've made my peace with it," I tell him sarcastically, and he laughs. "The best thing that I can do is show him up. Prove to him that I can handle his freaking class, even when he's making it practically impossible for anyone to pass."

"That's exactly what I was gonna tell you," Gale says.

"Well, you know me pretty well."

"That I do." He pauses. "Hey, what are you up to tonight?"

I glance at the bulging backpack on the floor beside my desk. "Tonight? I'm studying in my room." But the trickle of sweat on my forehead makes me rethink my decision. "Check that. I'm studying in the library."

"It's the first night of the semester," Gale says, sounding skeptical. "And you're studying."

"I'm sorry, I thought that we just established that you know me pretty well," I retort. "Obviously, I have to study. There's a lot at stake here."

He chuckles. "I get it. Talk to you later, then."

"Bye, Gale." I hang up the phone and with a groan, I force myself up off the bed and scoop up my bag. Otherwise, I'd be lounging around the room all night, biting my nails and accomplishing absolutely nothing.

Madge rises from her chair just as I'm about to leave the room, sweeping her flowing blond hair over one shoulder. "Mind if I walk out with you?"

I eye her suspiciously. Doesn't she have friends waiting for her somewhere? But Prim's voice pops into my head, and I force myself to smile at her, albeit tentatively. "Not at all."

As we walk down three flights of stairs in a stairwell that reeks of stale cigarette smoke and bleach, she turns to me with a shy smile. "I don't mean to pry. But was that your boyfriend on the phone?"

I actually choke on my laughter at her question. "Uh, no. Gale's not my boyfriend. We've been friends for years," I explain. She nods, but doesn't seem all that convinced. "He's practically family."

"Oh." She looks almost confused. Maybe she assumes that I'm resistant to going out and partying because I have a boyfriend back home. But now she knows—I'm just a straight-edged girl who lives life by following the rules. Well, only when it seems fit.

We walk out the front door, and the night air is considerably cooler than the air in the building. I close my eyes briefly, breathing it in. When I open my eyes, I notice that Madge has stopped short. She's gaping at something in front of us. Or rather, someone.

He's leaning up against a beat-up pickup truck that's parked in the gravel loop before my building. When my eyes land on his face, the look of bored impassivity changes into a smile that I can see in the dark. "Gale?" I call out incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

Madge nudges me. "Are you sure you're not dating him?" she asks in a hushed voice. I turn to her, see that familiar starry-eyed look on her face that girls often wear whenever they see Gale. "Because if _you're_ not, then I'd be happy to take him off your hands."

He's walking up to us, that easy smile spread across his face like butter on toast, and I can feel Madge stiffening beside me. "I don't know. Felt like coming out to see you," he says as he draws near. When he's close enough, he wraps me in a hug. My arms slide around him automatically. "Surprised?" he murmurs in my ear.

I pull away from him, grinning. "You're crazy, you know that?" I tease him, playfully punching him in the arm. Then I remember that Madge is still standing beside me in awe of Gale, and I blink back to reality. "Sorry. Madge, this is my friend, Gale. He's a junior here, but he lives off-campus. Gale, this is my roommate, Madge."

"Nice to meet you, Madge," Gale says cordially. If I didn't know him better, I'd assume that he was being genuine. But I know him, and I can see the way his mouth twists like he's tasted something sour just by looking at Madge. He's got this prejudice against people from the Capitol, who can afford to go to school anywhere they want, who can drink and carry on and generally skate through life without facing repercussions because of their bank statements, and while I can't argue with him about that, it's embarrassing that he makes those feelings obvious. But Madge probably can't tell because she's still sort of gaping at him, unable to respond in kind.

"I should get going. My ride's waiting in the front lot," Madge says to me, while keeping her eyes fixed on Gale. "See you later, Katniss. Don't bother waiting up."

"Okay, have fun." The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth. I don't have friends that can afford to spend Tuesday nights getting drunk off their asses.

"You, too," she mutters to me before she walks away, ridiculous high heels clacking all the way down the sidewalk.


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you doing here?" I ask Gale again. "You just called me on the phone, and now you're _here._"

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Gale says with a grin. "What, you don't want me here?"

"Of course, I do. I'm just a little surprised, that's all."

"Good. That was the point," Gale says. He's smiling still, but it occurs to me suddenly that something is a little off with him. I can't put my finger on it exactly. But whatever it is, I can feel it. "So, are you still planning on studying, or do you feel like going somewhere?"

My backpack is overflowing, weighing heavily on my shoulder, but I shrug the thought out of my mind. "I think I'm done for the night," I say. "Why, do you have a place in mind?"

He shrugs, but his mischievous smile tells me all that I need to know. I'm in the passenger seat before I can reconsider.

…

"Is it pathetic if I say that this place feels more like home than my _actual_ home?" I ask with a laugh as I lean back against the beat-up leather booth. Gale grins at me from across the table.

"A little," he admits. "But I won't judge."

Even though we're whiling away the hours of the first night of the semester in a tired old dive-bar, it doesn't feel pathetic. The Hob, though officially patronized by people of the legal drinking age in our hometown, is like a second home to both me and Gale. I've spent more nights sitting in this booth drinking flat sodas from the fountain and picking through bowls of mixed nuts than I can count. Some of my best memories are in this place, flickering neon bar signs and peeling drink coasters and all.

It sounds seedy, but this is all part of a well-established trade. While it's technically illegal to hunt on public land without the proper permits, Gale and I are pretty well-known around this part of town for our weekly game haul. We sell fruits and herbs to the bakery and the market, fresh meat to the butcher, and split the profits evenly. Whatever we don't sell ends up here. We've negotiated a fair price with the owner, an eccentric woman who insists that her customers call her Greasy Sae. In exchange for our goods, she allows us to spend as much time—and as little money—as we see fit in her bar. I've never even been carded—I think she paid off the security guard, a surly gray-haired loner called Thread. So it's actually a fair deal.

"My English prof would probably _love_ this place," I joke. Gale raises an eyebrow. "I'm kidding, obviously. The guy's got his doctorate in English literature from some fancy elitist university. He'd make some snarky comment about this place, about the people in it, and then go back to his wood-paneled office and drink whiskey out of his flask." I catch the look on Gale's face and know that I've gone too far. "I mean, I'm just guessing."

Gale takes a careful sip of beer, straight out of the bottle. That's what I like about him. Even his drink of choice, unabashedly simple and honest, reflects his best qualities. "Not too fixated on this class, are you?" he asks between sips. I narrow my eyes at him when I catch the sarcasm in his tone.

"I'm not _fixated_," I assert, but Gale shakes his head and takes another sip. Just to prove my point, I turn the attention back to him. "You never told me how your classes went, by the way."

"They were fine."

I nod along, knowing that I can't exactly press Gale for more details because that's about as good as I'll get from him. He's not much of a talker, unless he's in a spectacularly bright mood, and I almost never see him like that. Which I'm fine with, of course, because I'm not exactly upbeat or talkative myself. We get along fine either way—talking, not talking. Unfortunately, my peers at school don't seem to understand that friendships can be forged in moments of total silence.

"What about work?" I prod, realizing that he hasn't said a word all night about his part-time job working for a carpenter. "Were you able to pick up more shifts?" He just nods in response.

That feeling comes over me again for the second time tonight. Like he's keeping something from me. His reluctance to talk about his personal life isn't particularly unusual, because he, like me, has always had a hard time letting people in. But that's the strange thing—he's keeping something from _me_, his best friend, the only person he's ever let in before.

"You okay?" I ask now, teetering dangerously on the verge of becoming intrusive.

Gale lifts a shoulder. "Sure. Yeah." He smiles at me, and while I feel fortunate to be on the receiving end of something so rare, it's half-hearted. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," I say. "Something just seems… off." And as I'm saying it aloud, I can see the change in him. His eyes are dark, his lips curled into a grimace. I look to him for vocal confirmation.

He sighs as he shifts in his seat, and I lean forward. "I didn't want to bring this up right now, but. You should know." Gale drops his eyes to the table. "I'm dropping out of school."

I choke on my sip of ginger ale, the bubbles scalding my throat as they go down. I'm certain that I misheard him; the strains of some old classic rock song make it a little hard to hear sometimes. "Sorry, what?" I ask. But the guilty look on his face remains, and the sinking feeling in my chest confirms that this was no mistake. "Gale?"

"Katniss, don't…"

"Don't _what?"_ I demand. "What are you thinking, Gale? You're dropping out of school to… what? Lay hardwood floors for the rest of your life?" I can't help the condescending tone that creeps into my voice. It's not that I don't have respect for people that do these sort of jobs for a living. It's that Gale could do so much more. He could be _so much more_ than a carpenter.

He scowls at me, and whatever levity that was balanced delicately between us tonight comes crashing down. "Stop being so goddamn superior," he snaps at me. "Our fathers worked in the _mines_. Died on duty. I'd do the same, if I had the chance. But this is what I have to do."

"You don't have to drop out," I tell him. "You can keep doing things the way you've been doing it all along. Work part-time, finish up your degree." He rolls his eyes, as if I couldn't possibly understand. "Get a job, a _real _job with a _real_ salary and _real_ benefits."

"This isn't for _me_, Katniss," Gale says sharply, punctuating his words with a slam of the heel of his hand on the table. "Do you honestly think that I'm doing this for _me?" _He's glaring at me now, eyes dark and hooded. "It's about my mom. It's about Rory and Vick and Posy. It's about making sure there's enough food on the table, enough money to pay the rent. They shouldn't have to do without, just so I can go to this _fucking_ elitist college and drain my mother's bank account, and all for what? A four-year degree?"

My cheeks burn. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

"It's selfish," Gale says succinctly. "I can't… I can't _do that_ to them, watch them starve while I burn through money that I don't deserve to spend."

"So I'm _selfish_ now?"

He sighs heavily. "Katniss."

"No. I want to hear it," I prod. "Say the words."

My pulse pounds in my ears, but Gale stays silent, glaring down into his half-empty bottle. When he refuses to speak, I scoff. "Explain to me how it's _selfish_ to get an education. An education that will put you ahead of hundreds of job applicants. An education that will earn you job security, and more besides." He keeps scowling at the table. "How is that selfish, Gale?"

It's quiet. I want to feel triumphant, having dismantled his argument, but it won't change the fact that he's dropping out. So I pick at my soggy napkin and tap my foot impatiently under the table to the beat of a gloomy, downbeat song echoing through the bar. Dimly, I recognize it as a song my father used to hum under his breath after a particularly rough day at work. Each lingering low note morphs into a coal-dusted worry line, each drum beat a rumbling deep-chested cough.

The song ends, and when Gale looks up at me, his eyes are black. The dim lighting and falling shadows cut sharp angles into his face. "We could do it, you know," he says suddenly, without warning. I narrow my eyes at him.

"What?"

"Drop out," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Start over somewhere else, figure out a way to survive without diplomas or credit scores. You and I…" Gale says, tracing his thumb around the rim of his bottle absently. "You and I, we could make it."

I don't know what to say. What to make of his proposal. "Have you lost your mind?" I manage, shaking my head. He shrugs, but I don't think he's kidding.

"You always said you wanted to run," Gale says softly, a tone that starkly contrasts to the hard expression in his eyes. "You said you felt… _trapped_."

"That was _before_," I tell him roughly. "Before I knew that I could get into Capitol City, before I managed to get a scholarship. Before I figured out that this is what I need to do, to secure my future. My _family's_ future."

"Well, believe me, Katniss, you'll never feel more trapped than when you're at that school," Gale says with an edge of superiority. "I'm tired of people telling me what I need to do to survive. I already know how." His eyes lock on mine. "And so do you."

"Where is all of this coming from?" I ask him, a frantic feeling creeping up on me. "Gale, you can't just throw all of this away. You want to be a civil engineer. They don't hand those jobs out to just anyone. You need a _degree_."

"I don't care about that," he snaps.

"And why does it matter to you if _I_ drop out with you?" I press, leaning across the table. "What does it matter?"

"Forget it," Gale hisses at me. But even in the shadows, I swear that I can see a faint pink tint to his cheeks. As confused as I am, I try to ignore the knot forming in my stomach at that.

We sit in tense silence for a few minutes longer, Gale picking at the paper label on his sweaty bottle, and me staring intently at the back wall until I can't stand it anymore. "Just take me back," I mutter, and his eyes flit to mine, dark and full of hurt.

"Fine," he grunts in response, and slides out of the booth after leaving a handful of small bills on the sticky table. He's halfway to the door before he even turns to look at me. By that time, his face is wiped clean of any emotion. The stony façade he used to wear before he really got to know me, trust me. I haven't seen it in years, but it's back now.

I have a sickening feeling that I haven't seen the last of it.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Friday morning rolls around, I'm seriously starting to consider the merits of Gale's entreaty to quit school.

Madge slunk back into the room sometime Wednesday morning, thoroughly hungover and clearly hoping to pull the covers over her head to sleep off a night of shots and shame. But I could tell that she didn't expect to see me at my desk, poring over my lit anthology and furiously penning annotations in the margins. "Oh," she hiccupped as she closed the door behind her, eyes wide and accented with smeared eyeliner. "You're up."

"Yeah." I turned my full attention back to my reading. The previous night's events being what they were, I didn't get anything remotely accomplished, and had to start early on Wednesday to attempt to catch up. No time to spare.

Madge yawned and peeled her crop top over her head, swapping it for a loose t-shirt. "How did last night go?" she slurred, obviously still half-drunk. I glanced over my shoulder at her and waited for her to elaborate. "You know. With that guy who's not your boyfriend." She winked.

"He's all yours," I said with a shrug, just to divert all attention away from me. Madge blushed and stumbled into bed, leaving me alone with my unpleasant thoughts about what had happened the night before. Needless to say, I didn't get much done for the rest of the morning.

Gale was relentless. Calling me repeatedly all morning long, leaving lengthy messages when I inevitably screened his calls. And when he still failed to get my attention, he apologized in a flurry of text messages.

_Talk to me._

_Are you seriously mad at me? _

_I don't even know what I was saying last night. The alcohol talking, I guess. _

_Katniss. _

_Please. _

All these went unanswered, too, and at some point, Gale just gave up. It's been radio silence on his end since then.

I don't know if I should feel relieved or not. Something about the way he was looking at me, his eyes dark and insistent, just didn't feel right. Like he wasn't fully in control of what he was saying or thinking. Not to the point of inebriation, because he only drank a bottle and a half of a light brew, but it kind of felt like he was. Uninhibited, unchecked, so unlike the Gale I thought I knew.

I spent most of the day in class on Thursday—Psych 101 and Overview of Panem's History—which left almost no time for prepping for Lit. An anxious glance at my organizer sometime around 1 AM confirmed that, yes, the first exam was coming up in exactly a week's time. Enough of a staggeringly awful reminder to send me crawling under my covers for a brief period of respite.

So that's why I'm about ready to either break down in tears of over-exhaustion, or to start waving my white flag of surrender when I set foot in class on Friday afternoon. I'm early again, so the classroom is blissfully empty, dark and silent. I claim my seat on the fringe of the semi-circle, stack my books neatly on my desk and, figuring that I have about five minutes before everyone else comes straggling in, press my cheek to the slippery surface of my textbooks and fold my arms over my head.

_Five minutes of weakness. That's all you get,_ I tell myself. For the first time in nearly a week of living here, I allow myself to feel.

I feel empty, somehow, without seeing Prim's bright smile every day, or feeling her skinny little arms curl around me before going to bed each night. I feel a pinch of guilt in my gut for being, as Gale so bluntly put it, _selfish_ in putting my aspirations before the welfare of my sister, my mother. I feel exhausted, overwhelmed. Dangerously close to tears, even. Feelings that I can't linger over, because they threaten to undo me.

It's not like I have much time to sort through them. I hear the classroom door creak open and sit straight up, blinking any visible emotion out of my eyes, mentally filing it all away for later.

And then I see him.

Peeta flicks on the light as he walks in, the fluorescent bulbs overhead buzzing to life, and shoots me what could only be described as a shy smile as the door falls shut behind him. Flustered, and more than a little concerned that my teary eyes will betray my tough exterior, I snap my head toward the windows. Rude as it might make me seem, I just can't afford to let him see me looking this vulnerable.

I feel him, rather than hear him, slide into the desk on my immediate right. "Hey," he says, and it's so casual, like I'm not giving him the cold shoulder. Or maybe he's just too dim to understand it.

"Hey," I venture cautiously, turning away from the view to look at him. The first thing I notice is his eyes, how impossibly blue they are. He's staring at me so intently even though he wears an easy smile that doesn't quite match the intensity in his careful gaze. I swallow hard.

"Did you find it?" Peeta asks, and I stare at him, puzzled, until he elaborates with a grin. "The thing that you left here last class. Any luck?"

My cheeks flush. Already, I've forgotten that I lied to him to get out of an awkward conversation. But I didn't expect that he'd use that lie against me, so smoothly and so innocently. "Um, yeah. Right where I left it." I hope he doesn't ask what I left behind because I'm a terrible liar, but he seems to buy my story. He nods, and I bite the inside of my cheek and stare down at my desk, already out of things to say.

He's clever, this Peeta Mellark. If he's trying to back me into a corner, to eke words of belated gratitude for his kindness out of me, he's doing an impeccable job. Because there's nowhere left to run, no excuses left to make. We have five minutes before class starts, and I'm trapped beside him. Genius.

But if he has some sort of master plan worked out, he doesn't put it into action. When I glance over at him and find his eyes trained on me, he actually grins sheepishly and redirects his gaze to the classroom door. Seems shy, almost.

Still, I have no reason to believe that Peeta Mellark, easily the most agreeable guy in our graduating class, could be _shy._ There has to be something else lurking beneath the surface, behind that affable smile and those warm eyes. I'm torn between wanting to figure it out and wanting to keep my distances so that I never have to.

At long last, some people in class start coming through the door, and in a matter of minutes, the room is buzzing with idle conversation. I try to ignore Peeta at my side, try not to eavesdrop when he strikes up a friendly conversation with some of the girls and guys a few desks over, but it's hopeless.

He's enigmatic. Confusing. And, like Hemingway's deceptively simple prose, I can't help but wish that I could deconstruct him. But he's a person, not a line of text. Somehow, I think he'd be easier to figure out if he was.

Oddly, when Haymitch stumbles into the room, clearly nursing a serious hangover, I'm flooded with a sense of relief. It's a false sense of calm—I'm staggeringly unprepared for this class, and even less prepared for any new assignments are bound to come my way. Maybe it's because I'm just _that_ desperate to avoid any meaningful interaction with Peeta. Haymitch's scowl certainly isn't inviting.

The classroom, filled with the sounds of idle chatter just moments earlier, descends into uneasy silence as soon as Haymitch walks through the door. Thirty pairs of eyes dart to the front of the room. He crosses to his podium, sets his worn briefcase down by his feet and stares out at us, looking vaguely queasy.

"I assume you've all completed the reading I assigned for today's class," Haymitch says, his speech surprisingly unaffected by the intensity of his hangover. Glancing around the room, I notice that the majority of the students in the room are nodding emphatically to confirm. I roll my eyes.

"Fantastic. I can only take that to mean that I have the distinct privilege of teaching a roomful of liars." Haymitch cocks a bushy eyebrow aggressively. "Let's try this again, but answer honestly this time. By a show of hands, who _actually_ completed the reading?" Markedly fewer hands rise into the air. Peeta Mellark, I realize with a prickle of irritation, is among that minority group. "Ah, I see. We're being a little obsequious, aren't we?" Haymitch says with a smirk. "If you're all being honest—and I highly doubt that—could I get someone to analyze a passage that stood out to him or her while reading?" Nobody raises a hand, dares to cough or breathe. Haymitch surveys the room with a haughty smile.

"As I suspected," he says. Haymitch steps back from the podium and plants himself in a rickety-looking swivel desk chair. He kicks back, resting his heels on the desk in front of him, and pulls his flask out of his shirt pocket. "Since nobody in this room seems to take this class seriously, then I suppose I shouldn't, either." He grins, unscrews the top of his flask, takes a ceremonious swig. "Cheers."

A mousy-looking redhead seated near the front of the room pipes up, timidly raising a hand until Haymitch glances at her and nods for her to speak. "Excuse me, Professor, but… what exactly should we be doing in the meantime?" she asks in a barely audible voice.

"Haymitch," he corrects. "And since the reading for today's class wasn't completed, I would suggest that you start there. When you finish, continue reading until you reach the Renaissance period in English literature. We won't be discussing this until next class, of course, provided that the reading is completed. And if you still have time, begin reviewing for next Friday's exam." He takes another swig. "Is that enough instruction for you?"

A vague murmur of assent works its way around the room, and all around me, I hear the sound of books opening, flimsy pages turning. But I'm still staring directly at Haymitch, mouth hanging open in defiance and shock. I shouldn't be surprised—he's clearly unorthodox, clearly noncompliant and unthreatened by the possibility of losing his job—but I am. His red-rimmed eyes land on me, and I know before he even opens his mouth that we're going to have it out.

"Is there a problem, sweetheart?" he asks in this overly saccharine tone, raising an eyebrow. I feel a few eyes on me already, force myself to shake my head even though I'm choking back sharp-tongued retorts. "Well, since you didn't raise your hand to indicate that you completed the reading—and I'm actually tempted to commend you for your honesty—I'd suggest that you start reading," Haymitch says. I resist the urge to get up and smack him.

"I didn't read all of it," I respond as smoothly as I can, and Haymitch fixes me with a knowing smile. That pisses me off, but I try to remain calm. "What I _did_ read, I annotated."

Haymitch chortles. "I didn't ask you to read passages selectively," he says, his tone authoritative. By now, we're commanding a bit of an audience, but I can't direct my gaze anywhere but at him. "I _asked _you to complete seventy pages of reading. You failed to comply." He crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't reward students for half-assing my workload, you know."

"I'm not _half-assing_ it," I snap at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta staring at me, but I don't look at him. "If anyone's half-assing it, it's _you._ Assigning an impossible amount of work, showing up to class with a .10 BAL, neglecting to actually _teach_ your students the week before an exam." Haymitch's eyes narrow dangerously, and though I'm aware that I have crossed a line—one that can't be uncrossed—I find that I'm gaining confidence as I vent my frustrations. This nasty drunk, this _incompetent_ professor makes an easy target. "If you're going to make those kinds of accusations against your students, you should be prepared to share some of the responsibility for our failings," I scoff.

Dimly, I realize that the entire class has fallen silent. I also notice that my hands are balled into fists at my sides. "If that's what you believe, Miss…?"

"Everdeen," I supply sharply. "Katniss Everdeen."

"If that's what you believe, Miss Everdeen, then take it up with the chair of the English department. Take your complaints about my lackadaisical teaching style to the dean of the school of Humanities, take it to President Snow, for all I care. But don't broach this topic with me again during class time, especially not in front of your peers," Haymitch says, his tone laced with venom. "Understood?"

I know that I should just bite my tongue and agree. I need to do well in this class if I have any hopes of keeping my scholarship and need-based aid money, if I have any hopes of securing a more promising future. But my blood runs hot, and my hunter's instincts push me to move in for the kill. "No," I say, surprising even myself with the harshness in my voice. "If you won't apologize for your actions, then don't expect me to do the same."

Haymitch sets his feet back on solid ground, one by one. My muscles tense up, just like they do before I draw back my arrow and make a kill, when he takes a few deliberate steps in my direction. Hushed whispers around the room, eyes locked on me. I set my jaw and meet his hard gaze with what little confidence I have left.

"Perhaps you should excuse yourself, sweetheart," Haymitch says with a grimace. "Collect your thoughts after that… _unwarranted_ outburst."

I've already gathered my belongings into my arms before he's finished speaking. Legs trembling and face burning, I hitch my bag over my shoulders and stalk out of the classroom. The door slams shut behind me.

Not even ten minutes into our second class, and I've already been thrown out. I wander aimlessly down the hall, that same thought running through my head on repeat. _Thrown out_ _of class_. A nervous laugh bubbles up in my chest but it comes out in a trembling half-sob. I'm gritting my teeth, digging my nails into my palms to stop the flood before it starts. I can't be weak, not like this.

I hear someone behind me calling my name in a stage whisper. Without thinking, I turn to look over my shoulder to locate the source. Instantly, I regret it.

His eyes lock on mine before I have the chance to duck my head, pretend that I didn't see him or hear him, so I pause in the middle of the hallway. There's not much time for me to blink tears of humiliation out of the way, but Peeta's gaining on me, practically jogging to catch up to me, and I just have to get everything under control.

I can't let him see me break. I won't.

"God, you walk fast," he says, a little breathless once he falls into place beside me. I cut my eyes at him, suspicious of his motives, but he just smiles at me as if this is completely natural. As if getting kicked out of class for chewing out a professor is acceptable behavior. He's acting as if it hadn't even happened. "Didn't think it was humanly possible to walk that fast."

I shrug, try to pick up the pace a little more so he falls behind. But he's still lingering beside me. It's impossible to shake him off.

"Did he send you?" I ask, pausing before I push through the side door exit. Peeta stops short. The confusion in his eyes makes no sense to me. "Haymitch, I mean. Did he send you after me?"

"_No,"_ Peeta says, drawing out the word slowly. "You looked pretty upset when he asked you to leave. So after you stormed out, I just got up and ran after you, to make sure that you were okay." He raises an eyebrow. "Are you?"

Obviously, I'm not okay. In the span of a week, I've left home, lost touch with my best friend, and gotten thrown out of class after a sparring match with a vengeful professor. And to top it all off, I have Peeta Mellark following me around for reasons I can't begin to figure out. So, no. I'm not okay.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I tell him flatly. "Feel free to report back to Haymitch now." I slam the metal bar on the door with both hands, but it doesn't budge. Refusing to make eye contact with him, I try to force it open by knocking into it with my hip. Peeta steps forward and effortlessly pushes the door open, grinning at me as he holds it for me. I'm sure my face is burning.

"Like I said before, he didn't send me to check on you," Peeta says as he follows me down the steps. "I came after you to see for myself."

"Why?" I demand, whirling around to face him. He looks a little surprised by my intensity, but I don't let up. I need answers. "We're not friends. You don't even know me." I narrow my eyes at him. "_Why_ do you care?"

I think it's the first time I've ever seen him hesitate, or seen him unsure of himself. "Um," he starts, taking a cautious step in my direction. "I wanted to tell you that what you did back there… well." He drops my accusatory gaze for a moment, then brings his startlingly blue eyes back up to mine. "It was really brave."

A compliment. I'm not good with receiving compliments, especially not from boys with unclear motives. I stare at him, skeptical and cynical. "You don't mean that," I scoff, and he frowns. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Peeta opens his mouth to say something, seems to think better of it and presses his lips together even though the conflicted look on his face remains. I shake my head at him, already over this conversation, this confusing exchange that we're having, and turn my head toward the lake in the distance. I have nothing more to say to him, don't know what I would say if I could find the right words.

"You're wrong, you know," he says suddenly, breaking the silence between us. I turn back to him, eyes narrowed. He's got this odd little smirk on his face that I can't decipher. _"I know you_, Katniss Everdeen. I know that you have the guts to say what everyone else is thinking, even if you don't think that you do. I know that you're ridiculously smart, _and_ I know that you can't accept a compliment to save your life." His eyebrow hitches up, almost tauntingly, and I feel my pulse quicken.

"What are you, my stalker?" I snap at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's the only explanation I can come up with, for why you've been following me around. Like I said before, we're not friends." I fold my arms across my chest defensively. "I barely know you. You never made an effort to speak to me in high school. So excuse me if I'm a little skeptical of what you're doing here."

Peeta surveys me in silence for a moment, his eyes skimming across my face impassively, before the smirk on his face is replaced by a shy smile. "Are you hungry?"

I'm caught off-guard, expecting some ridiculous excuse for his efforts to win me over. "What?"

"Don't tell me that you have class," he says with a laugh, nodding back towards the department building. "Because we both know that's a lie."

I hesitate. He's staring at me, blue eyes lit up with amusement at watching me struggle internally with his casual invitation. "I, um…"

"You said you barely know me," he says with a shrug. "So here's your opportunity to figure me out." Peeta grins, and for some reason, the air of ease and confidence that he exudes frustrates the hell out of me. "Trust me, I'm not that intricate."

His self-deprecating sense of humor, his smile, the way he tries to make me feel like I've known him forever even though we're essentially strangers… it's all so disarming. But his offer is tempting, if only because his motives in talking to me are ambiguous at best. "You sell yourself short," I mutter, hoping that he doesn't catch it. He surprises me with a laugh, a genuine one.

"Can I take that as a 'yes'?"

I narrow my eyes at him, but he's unwavering. "Guess I have nothing better to do."

He shrugs, the teasing glint in his eyes still in the foreground of his gaze. "I'll take it."


	7. Chapter 7

I survived an hour alone with Peeta Mellark. And, in spite of everything, I actually… didn't hate it.

Given that I thought he might try to bring up that night—the incident with the bread—I was admittedly tense for the first fifteen minutes or so. But when it became clear that it wasn't his endgame, I forced myself to relax.

I paint with a broad brush, so to speak, so it's tempting for me to slap him with a label and move on without a second thought. _Conceited merchant kid_ or _smug know-it-all_. I don't know, I guess I always thought that his exterior was just part of his nice guy act. The bread thing excluded, I always assumed that Peeta Mellark was fake. An image. An inherently contradictory line of text in a pretentious novella.

He proved me wrong.

Well, I shouldn't say that. Because that would mean that I've decided to trust him, and I only have enough room in my heart for Prim. But, trust issues aside, he's okay.

He walks me back to my building, even though it's like four in the afternoon and broad daylight. When I ask him where he lives on campus, he shrugs the question off. Then, after I push a little harder, he relents. "Elmhurst."

"Isn't that on the opposite side of campus?" I ask, looking up at him incredulously. The corner of his mouth tugs up, but he doesn't answer my question. "That's, what, about a fifteen minute walk from here?"

"Hey, I could use the exercise," he says with a smirk. "I was in better shape back in high school. Now I'm practically out of breath just walking up a flight of stairs."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. You used to wrestle."

He glances down at me, and it's impossible to miss the amusement in his eyes. "And you said you barely know me," he says with a laugh. "Sounds like you were paying attention to me in high school after all, huh?"

"Just an observation," I tell him coolly, but my cheeks are burning. He's still grinning at me, teasingly, but it's enough to make me flustered. I don't fluster easily.

We stop in front of Carlisle's main entrance. "This was… unexpected," I say hesitantly, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. "But – good." God. I want to smack myself in the forehead. I pride myself on being levelheaded, but suddenly I'm unable to string together a coherent thought. Is it because he's grinning at me for noticing him? Or is it all just in my head?

"Yeah, it was." Peeta smiles, and I can't tell if it's because he's secretly laughing at me for speaking fluently in Idiot or if he's just being genuine—he's got one of those smiles that makes it hard to tell. "We should do it again sometime."

"Do what again?"

He chews his bottom lip. "I don't know. All of it. Minus the whole getting-kicked-out-of-class thing." Is it me, or does he actually look… _nervous?_

I'm a little surprised. Thought it was kind of a pity thing, really, and even though I hate thinking that people consider me a charity case, I sort of threw him this one. Maybe in an effort to get him off my back, or to appease my own gnawing guilt, but either way, I sort of thought this was a one-time deal. "Um," I start, aware that I'm swiftly losing my ability to carry on an intelligent conversation. "Okay."

"Okay," Peeta says, and he sounds encouraged by my uncomfortable affirmation. "It's a plan, then."

I nod dumbly at him, that familiar feeling of blind terror washing over me at the prospect of spending more time with him. An hour was fine. Class time is unavoidable. Maybe the occasional walk back from class. But somehow he still wants more. From me. And it's not adding up.

He's about to walk away when he pauses in mid-step. "That Lit exam, next Friday," he says. "Have you started studying yet?"

"No." Anxiety creeps back in. "You?"

Peeta shakes his head. "I was just thinking. It's a lot of material to cover. And, since we don't exactly have lecture notes to work from, or even a professor to ask for clarification…" He allows himself a wry smile. "Think it would be a good idea to study together?"

I stare at him for a moment in paralyzed silence, weighing my options. I could refuse him, spare myself the anxiety of finding things to talk to him about and finding ways to circumvent the obvious tense subject between us. But if I do that, I know I could never study all alone. I'd never finish, and then I'd land myself back in a precarious situation with Haymitch, maybe even the dean. Risk my scholarship, my aid money, my carefully charted course from here into my future career. A lot is riding on this offer.

"Sure. Might speed up the process," I say, and he looks relieved. "When do you want to start?"

"Tomorrow too soon?" he asks. I must have some sort of conflicted look on my face, because he recants immediately. "I mean, if you have time. I know it's a Saturday."

"It's fine," I say, even though there are things I'd rather be doing than studying for a test I know that I'm being set up to fail. "Where?"

"I know where you live," he says smoothly, and turns away. I watch him walk all the way down the sidewalk and disappear past the edge of the building.

…

"Okay, what type of imagery tends to accompany early elegiac poems?"

I bite down on my bottom lip in concentration. "Um…" I start to reach for my notebook at the opposite edge of the table, but Peeta's hand covers it before I can grab it.

"No cheating," he says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Or else there _will_ be consequences."

I roll my eyes at him. "Such as…?"

"Such as… a one-hundred point penalty."

"I wasn't aware that we were playing a game," I tell him pointedly.

He grins. "We are now." Then he glances back down at his notes. "You never answered the question."

"Um. Imagery of abandonment and loneliness?" I guess. Peeta raises his head to look at me, and nods to encourage me further. "Like ships lost at sea in the middle of the winter, or abandoned buildings."

"Exactly," he says, grinning. "See? You didn't even need your notes."

"How many points was that answer worth?" I ask him, leaning forward across the table on my elbows. When he shrugs, I press harder, fully committing to the joke. "You threatened me with a penalty. So, I think that I _at least_ deserve some sort of reward for my hard work."

Peeta leans back in his chair, surveying me with a hint of a smile playing across his lips. "Okay. How about this?" He closes his binder and pushes it aside. "We take a break from studying for, say, ten minutes. Which you completely earned on your own. I, on the other hand, have contributed nothing to this effort."

"Oh, you're so self-deprecating."

"One of my many fine attributes," Peeta deadpans with a wry smile. Then he sits forward in his seat and rests his chin in his hand. "What about you?"

My stomach does a somersault. "What?" He's staring at me now. Waiting for me to answer his question, but it's so ambiguous that I can't be certain what he wants to know. "I mean, what about me?"

"What about your finer attributes?" I narrow my eyes at him, unsure how to respond, but he just laughs. "I know, that was a hell of a non-sequitur. It's just that… I feel like I'm always talking about myself when I'm around you."

"Really?" I respond, shifting my focus to the group of girls in my peripheral vision, who are apparently studying at the next table, but not-so-subtly staring at me and Peeta. My cheeks are burning, but I don't know if it's because of them, or because I'm flustered by this particular conversation topic. "Doesn't feel like it."

He smiles. It's probably just my perception, but it seems a little thin. "I'd have to say the opposite about you," he says instead. "You never talk about yourself."

"We don't talk much."

"I get the sense that, even if we did, you still wouldn't talk about yourself," Peeta says with a knowing look.

That look prickles at the back of my mind. I'm not sure whether to be flattered by his accurate appraisal of my character or to be offended. He doesn't know me. And maybe I shouldn't want him to, but for some reason or another, I shrug. "Try me, then."

He blinks in surprise, like he wasn't expecting me to bend so easily. Then he grins, rubbing his palms together. "Okay, okay. Let me think of something good."

I force a small smile in return, but I can't help but feel sinking dread. I'm a deeply private person—Peeta got that much right—and it kind of gets my palms sweating just imagining what kind of questions he might fire at me. I'm not sure how much I want him to know about me.

Suffice it to say that people with unclear motives make me nervous. Especially people like Peeta.

"Got it," he says, and eagerly leans forward. I cross my arms over my chest, trying in vain to ignore the way my pulse starts to pound, and watch his face turn grave. "Katniss. Which theory did you pick for that paper?"

I roll my eyes at him as he starts to laugh, the tension lifting in time with my inaudible sigh of relief. _"That's_ your question?" I ask skeptically, and he shrugs. "And here I thought that you had something good on me."

"Well, everyone knows that you have to build up to the good stuff," he says with a teasing smile. _"Everyone_, Katniss."

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're picking up a double major in business and not pre-law?"

"You're evading the question," he says, shaking his head. "Again. Wow. You make a hostile witness."

"Fine. I picked feminism," I tell him.

"You're kidding."

"No, I…" He's smirking, so I trail off mid-sentence, cheeks reddening. "Okay, you know what? Let's just get back to studying."

Peeta sighs, and when I dare to lift my eyes to his, I can tell that he feels guilty. "Katniss, I wasn't trying to—"

"Can we please just get back to studying?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Okay." Then he shrugs. "I wasn't trying to offend you. Just so you know." He slides his notebook back over to the middle of the table, starts flipping through the pages idly. "So, where did we leave off?"

I shouldn't want to say anything. I should want to crack open my books and pass the rest of this study session in near total silence, aside from the occasional question or answer. But my motivation to study is temporarily pushed off to the side. I'm distracted by the loss of the easy conversation that flowed between us just moments ago, and for some reason, I want to restore it.

"It's just a paper," I tell him. He glances up at me, eyebrow raised. "Critical analysis. It's not like… well, if I picked Marxism, that wouldn't mean that I was a Marxist, would it?"

Peeta lifts a shoulder. "No, I guess not. But that's not what I was getting at." He clears his throat, flips to a new page in his notebook and pretends to be engrossed by the lines of text there. But I won't let him get away with that answer so easily.

"What _were_ you getting at?" I ask him, attempting to sound merely curious and not hostile, as I suspect I might.

"Katniss…" he starts, keeping his eyes trained on his notes.

"Peeta," I return, his name sounding foreign in my mouth. The first time I've ever spoken it aloud. "Come on." When he hesitates, I add, "It's my turn to ask a question, anyway."

He looks up at me. Takes a breath, seems to be gathering courage to make a simple explanation. "What I meant was… that it seems fitting. For you. Not that I think that means you're a feminist. Which is fine, if you are." He smiles at me, shakily, and I have to try my hardest not to crack a smile. It's kind of refreshing, seeing him like this. Nervous.

"It's just that you're… independent. I think that's the word I'm looking for. Something I've always noticed about you," he babbles. I give him a thin-lipped smile in return, but my stomach has started to twist and knot. Something he's _always noticed?_

"Does my feminism _intimidate_ you?" I challenge him, trying to come off like I'm joking, but rather sounding defensive. So I throw in a small smile for good measure.

Peeta laughs, almost sounding relieved that I've taken this so well. "Oh, God, yes." He grins at me, a hint of shyness infusing his features that I've never seen before. "You, Katniss Everdeen, are _insanely_ intimidating."

I'm tempted to interpret that as a slight, but I can't help myself. A blush works its way across my cheeks and I drop my eyes, undeniably uncomfortable with the way he's looking at me. "Good to know," I tell him, smiling down at my notes in spite of myself.

So, I intimidate him. Judging from the way those girls at the next table cast derisive looks in my direction, I suppose that I intimidate them, too.

It's then that I dimly realize that Peeta is objectively attractive. Wide smile, wavy blond hair, blue eyes that seem to see into you. Built, with just enough muscle to convey physical strength but not aggression.

Strangely, I never noticed it before, and the realization makes my stomach twist into knots. But I intimidate him, make girls far more worthy of his attention jealous, and somehow, that sets me at ease.

It's a confidence that propels me through the rest of the study session. Carries me through the next one on Sunday, and when Peeta shyly suggest that we meet again later in the week to review, the thrill of having the upper hand in our odd little dynamic compels me to agree.

He walks me back to my dorm on Thursday night, and I let him because it is pretty late. "Think we're prepared?" he asks, breaking the silence between us. I can't help but notice his word choice: _we_. As if we're a unit, conquering this exam as one.

"Only because I kept you focused," I say, ignoring the tickle of anxiety in my chest.

"Yeah, well," he says, nudging me with his elbow as we walk. "I get distracted easily."

We pause by the front door, and there's that familiar tension between us again. I expect him to say goodnight, or wish me luck on the test tomorrow morning, or do _something_, but he's oddly reserved. He looks down at me, the corners of his mouth curved into a timid smile, and opens his mouth like he's about to speak, when it's my turn to get distracted.

"Sorry," I say, sliding my buzzing phone out of my pocket and flipping it open without so much as a glance at the screen. Peeta nods, bites back whatever it was he was probably going to say, and I hold the phone up to my ear. And instantly regret it.

"Catnip," the voice on the line says in a desperate breath. "I need to talk to you."


	8. Chapter 8

"Please don't hang up," Gale entreats me. I assume that he's drunk, but his voice is clear, not soaked in alcohol as I would have suspected. "I know you've been screening my calls lately, but I just need you to listen to me."

I exhale in frustration. "Look, I don't have time for this right now, Gale."

"Let me apologize," he pleads. _"Really_ apologize. For not telling you sooner, for saying some things that I shouldn't have said." He's desperate, so out of character. I know it must be killing him inside to admit fault, to basically fall to his knees begging for forgiveness, but I think he must realize that he's done a thorough job of pushing me away. "What do I have to do?"

Peeta's watching me with his eyebrows raised and hands tucked in his pockets, and for some reason, his presence gives me a sense of urgency. Something about being on the phone with Gale and standing in front of Peeta makes me want to end the call as quickly as possible, but I can't put my finger on the reason. "Um, can we talk about this later?" I ask, careful to avert my eyes from Peeta. "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"As long as you promise to call back."

"I will," I assure him. "Give me a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure," Gale says, sounding encouraged. Then, after a beat: "Are you with someone?"

The weight of Peeta's gaze is suddenly stifling. "Is that important?" I mutter.

"I don't know. Is it?" His tone has taken on a sharp edge. I can't account for the sudden shift in his attitude, and it's not as if I have time to figure it out.

"Gale, I'll call you back," I say dismissively, and hang up before he can protest. I lift my eyes back to Peeta, who is still standing before me patiently. I force a breathy laugh and flip my phone shut. "Sorry, I should have let that one go to voicemail."

"It's okay," he says with a shrug. Nodding at the phone in my hand, he asks, "Was that, um…?"

"My friend, Gale. Gale Hawthorne," I interject, before he has the chance to ask. Peeta nods, seemingly out of recognition, so I ask, "Do you know him?"

His mouth twitches up, but he shakes his head. "Oh, not really. Just remember seeing him around town." He looks like he wants to say more, but stops himself. After a pause, he remarks, "Always thought he was your cousin or something."

"We get that a lot." Because it's true, we do look similar. Same tan complexion, same straight black hair, same deep-set gray eyes. "But, no. We're friends."

"Oh." He pauses uncomfortably. "Was I… interrupting something…?"

"No, no." Peeta nods, almost looking a little relieved. "You looked like you were gonna say something earlier. Before he called."

He takes his time to answer. "No, I… just wanted to say thanks," he says finally, but his tone is clipped, reluctant. "For working with me."

I smile at him because I don't know what to say. If I thought that conversation flowed naturally between us before, now it feels halted.

"See you tomorrow," he says when I don't respond, and before I can tell him goodnight, he's already gone.

…

I pass in my exam without bothering to check it over. When Haymitch first stumbled into class with a stack of thick exams resting like a brick in his palms, I just knew. This wasn't going to be good.

Haymitch grumbles when I slide my packet towards him, possibly still half-drunk. The questions on the exam might as well have been written by a drunk; they were that incomprehensible. With a sigh, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the exit.

It occurs to me while I'm walking that it's the first time I've left class without my shadow. I've almost come to expect Peeta, hovering behind me or falling into step beside me. And while I never exactly asked for his friendship, it's starting to feel almost natural.

If I could just forget the tension between us last night, that is.

I pause on the steps outside the Humanities building, lean against the wall and wait. Try to adopt a semblance of nonchalance, even though my insides are starting to swim.

Just as I'm debating whether or not to just go on without him, the door to my left creaks open. I twist toward the sound.

"What are you still doing here?" he asks, almost in disbelief. I shrug, even though my face must be some shade of red at this point.

"Thought I'd wait for you," I explain, stating the obvious. The corner of Peeta's mouth hitches up, but he just nods. "And, um, thank you. I meant to say it last night, but… things got in the way."

Namely, Gale. I called him back after Peeta dropped me off at my dorm, let him apologize for the way he was acting that night at the Hob in the slow, halting way that he does. Gale doesn't apologize, unless he thinks that he needs to. I tried to ignore the prideful feeling swelling in my chest, but simply took his apology in stride.

"Yeah, about that." The dimple in his cheek sinks and fades. "Katniss, if I was interrupting anything, I'm really—"

"Don't apologize," I tell him, rushing to cut him off. I don't know why, but this is not a conversation I want to have with Peeta. My friendship with Gale, and whatever I have here with Peeta, are not mutually exclusive. Something about the idea of the two of them competing for my attention makes my stomach twist into knots.

He blinks in surprise, recoils a little at my intensity. "Okay…" he says cautiously. "Sorry for, um, bringing it up again." He smiles, the kind of smile that you wear to placate someone. Thin and wary.

"That came out wrong," I say, feeling my cheeks heating up again. "I just meant that, um. You shouldn't be sorry."

I can't decide if what I've just said is loaded with meaning. So I'll just let him figure that one out for himself.

Peeta smiles. "Well, in that case, I'm not."

…

Between Gale and Peeta, I've been on the receiving end of more apologies than I know what to do with.

I called Gale back that night while I leaned up against the wall in the stairwell, let him apologize in that hesitant, reluctant way that only he can. For snapping at me, for saying things he shouldn't have said. _Wouldn't _have said, if he hadn't been drinking. "It was stupid, asking you to drop out with me," he mumbled, a hint of honest regret lacing his tone. "I wasn't thinking straight. I just—"

"Gale." He cut himself off, and I could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line. "It's okay." Even though I wasn't entirely sure that I believed his story. That he was too drunk to know what he was saying, while he seemed perfectly coherent to me. But that wasn't a fight that I wanted to have with him. "Let's just forget about it, okay?"

I could hear the relief in his voice. "Okay."

"Good." I pushed myself off the wall, switched the phone to my other ear because I'd been holding it in place for far too long. "I really should go. But we'll talk soon."

"All right." I smiled to myself, even though the issue didn't feel completely resolved. Just as I was about to say goodnight and punch the End button, Gale stammered. "Uh, Katniss, wait."

My throat clenched with dread. "Yeah?"

"Would you…" Gale cleared his throat, started again. "Would you have time on Sunday, to meet in our usual spot?"

_Our spot. _The patch of woods that we'd claimed as our own after our hunting trips started to coincide. If I close my eyes, I can picture it. Evergreen trees waving in the breeze all around us, forming a protective canopy of sorts. The sun poking through a hole in the lush green canvas. "Yes," I said automatically, because if I'm being honest with myself, it's the only place I feel completely at peace. The only place I feel like myself.

"I'll pick you up," he said, a smile creeping into his voice. The rare kind, the kind that I'm only privy to in the thick cover of underbrush. "See you Sunday, then."

And if it hadn't been for Peeta's apology, I wouldn't have given that conversation with Gale a second thought. But now that he's expressed some sort of strange remorse for getting between me and Gale, I'm starting to wonder… is he right? Is there a rift forming between us?

There are no more Lit tests on the immediate horizon, but that doesn't stop Peeta from picking up where we left off. "Doing anything this weekend?" he asks, possibly more out of habit than genuine interest, as we walk back from class. I resist the urge to raise an eyebrow at him skeptically.

"Does writing my theory paper count?" I counter, careful not to look at him. I don't know why, but his innocuous question is starting to set me on edge. We're not friends, exactly. Tentative acquaintances, and unless this is a question about my workload, we are in danger of toeing that delicate line.

"Sure," he says with a faint laugh. "Because that's basically all I'm doing this weekend. Camping out on the library's fourth floor." I feel his eyes on me, and it seems almost rude to avoid them for much longer. "Feel free to join me. Share my misery."

I can't tell if it's a carefully crafted joke or an actual invitation.

But, for the second time today, I find myself blurting out things without thinking. "Maybe I will."

He grins.

And that's how I end up splitting my time between Peeta and Gale.

Before I even realize it, I'm locked into a routine. Half my weekends are spent huddled over a cramped table in the library with Peeta, where we'll sit for hours working on papers or dissecting passages in silence, until he mutters something funny in my ear in an offhand way and I let out a surprised barking laugh. It's enough to earn us death glares from whoever is unfortunate enough to be studying nearby, and enough to start us shaking with silent laughter.

And Sundays are reserved for Gale. Hunting, gathering edible roots and herbs while they're still in season. We settle down in our spot, backs pressed up against the boulder that we've dubbed _our rock_ as we stare up at _our trees _and _our sky_ and feel this sense of ownership and entitlement that is unparalleled in our daily lives. He drives me back to school after we're done in pensive silence, and I return to the library, start the whole cycle over again.

"Five," Gale remarks one afternoon, plucking a blade of grass between his thumb and forefinger and admiring it absently. I abandon my arduous task of skinning a rabbit and, setting my knife down, turn to him with narrowed eyes.

"What?"

He glances at me with a shrug. "Nothing. Just keeping count." Then he goes back to picking at that browning blade.

"Keeping count of _what?"_ I press, until Gale's eyes flit back to mine. They're hard, steely.

"How many times you've brought up that trust fund kid in conversation so far." He almost spits the words: _trust fund kid._ A little smirk creases his lips. "Five times. Not a record-breaker, by any means."

I stare at him, mouth hanging open in a mixture of shock and protest, while I search my memory for any mentions of Peeta in our conversations. I don't talk about him that much, as far as I can recall.

But judging from the scowl on Gale's face, I'm starting to wonder if I do.

"He's got a name, you know," I say instead of protesting, because I know that it's pointless to argue with Gale about this.

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know. And do you wanna know why? Because you bring him up all the fucking time."

"I do _not!"_ I snap at him, but my cheeks are hot and I know that I've just confirmed it now. Gale shoots me a knowing look.

"You got a crush on him or something?" he asks gruffly, looking down at his hands. I gape at him, the blush intensifying, which compels him to continue. "It makes sense, I guess."

I don't know what to say, how to respond without completely losing my cool. So I bite my tongue and find my composure before opening my mouth. "How do you figure?"

Gale shrugs, clearly not having trouble coming up with evidence. "You're with him all the time. You talk about him non-stop. I haven't even said the guy's name, but you're fire-engine red when I mention him." Then he raises an eyebrow, apparently because my blush has deepened. Didn't even know it was possible to turn that red. "See? That's what I'm talking about."

"I'm blushing because you're _making me_ blush," I hiss at him. Calling attention to my red face only makes me blush more. At least, that's what I manage to rationalize. "And what's the big deal about me spending time with him? We study. We talk sometimes. It's no different from what I have with you, is it?"

But as I say the words aloud, I realize. It _is_ different.

Because while I'm finding it increasingly easier to talk to Peeta, to let down my guard, I've managed to conveniently forget about the one circumstance that keeps us at odds.

I owe him. And I owe nothing to Gale.

By default, our relationships could not be more different.

Gale gives me this condescending, pitiful smile. "Oh, you have no idea."

I stare at him in stunned silence for a few tense moments, then gather up my game bag, my bow and arrow. "Okay. I'm done with this," I tell Gale abruptly, to which he groans in reply. "Take me back."

The car ride back to school is awkward, to say the least. I drum my fingertips against the passenger-side door handle, turn so that I'm facing out the window. Gale sighs and clears his throat, probably in a desperate bid to get my attention, but I ignore it.

I'm still burning—humiliated, betrayed—by the time we pull up in front of Carlisle. In my haste to unbuckle myself and flee the car, I end up turning and catching a glimpse of Gale's face. He's serious now, his face drawn and grave. "Katniss."

"What?" I snap, more sharply than I intended. "What else do you have to say to me?"

He inhales deeply, lets it out slowly through his nostrils. Then: "He's got a thing for you."

I swear that my heart pounds once against my ribcage, then falls back, limp and lifeless. It takes a few seconds for me to find the breath to speak. "You're kidding."

Gale grips the worn steering wheel, tightly enough that his knuckles pop and blanch. "Nope."

And as I struggle to comprehend what that means—how _Gale_ could possibly know for certain that Peeta does in fact have 'a thing' for me—he mutters, "Trust me. I know."

I have so many questions, but they don't come to mind until long after Gale has pulled out of the circular driveway and left me standing helplessly by the curb.

_How do you know?_

_Why do you care? _

_What the hell am I supposed to do? _

…

Haymitch is already planted behind his podium by the time I slip into class on Friday afternoon, and he surprisingly doesn't call me out for arriving late, or for being conspicuously absent during Tuesday's session. I take an empty desk close to the door, hastily rifle through my bag and stack my books in front of me. A little late to lecture, but it's better this way.

I make the mistake of letting my eyes wander the room. Peeta's sitting directly across the room, on the other side of the semi-circle by the window bay. Where we always end up sitting. He catches my eye before I have the sense to duck my head.

_You okay?_ he mouths at me, forehead creased in obvious concern. I flush and give him a curt nod before fixing my eyes on my desk.

Why did Gale have to say anything in the first place? Because now, I find it difficult to meet Peeta's eyes without my stomach lurching. I can't even look at him, think of him without turning some shade of crimson.

"I've graded your theory papers," Haymitch announces with a definite hint of manic glee in his voice. A couple of groans well up from the desks in the middle of the semi-circle, to which Haymitch chuckles. "You thought I'd forgotten about them? Your first theory papers of the semester?" I glance up from my desk to see him smirking. "Well, you've had your period of respite, however brief. But since I've been burdened with these for long enough, I suppose that I'll unload them on you now."

I barely have time to panic before Haymitch crosses from the podium directly to my desk. Without looking at me, he says, "I had some outstanding papers. Truly original arguments." As I flip to the last page and feast my eyes on the red letter circled there, his voice turns cold. "And then there were the disappointments."

My eyes swim. I feel light-headed. Haymitch has already moved on down the line, still speaking and gesticulating wildly, but his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.

In the comments section below my grade, scrawled in childlike penmanship: _Underwhelming. Your argument was pedestrian, and your application of theory tenuous at best. I'd reconsider examining "Delight in Disorder" through a feminist lens—it's very overdone. _Then, seemingly as an afterthought: _Consider seeing me to discuss. And perhaps, consider a different educational path? _

A 53.

I zone out for the remainder of the session, blind and deaf and utterly numb to my surroundings. Because all I can see is that number flashing in my mind—_failure. Irredeemable failure. _

Peeta approaches me after class, worry etched into his features, but I just can't do it. It's all too much at once, too many incomprehensible things to process. So I brush him aside and stumble back to Carlisle alone.

I've gone crazy, perhaps. Driven to the brink of insanity after realizing that there are some things I cannot control. And if my life is going to continue in this downward spiral, well…

"Madge," I say breathlessly as I burst into our dorm room. She turns from her desk, startles at the wild look that must register in my eyes, but blinks her visceral reaction away just in time for me to say it. "I think I need your help."


End file.
